That Dares Not Speak
by Maiden of the Moon
Summary: Ignorance and innocence are human luxuries. SebaCiel.


**Disclaimer: **Nope.

**Author's Note: **I probably shouldn't keep using this numerical style—it screams of laziness. But I can't help it. I'm lazy. XD;

**Warnings: **Post-season II. References history. Fluff? (WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN—) ADD editing/general fail. SebaCiel.

**XXX**

**That Dares Not Speak**

**XXX**

**I.**

Sebastian has never much cared for the news of humans. What did the passing pleasures and problems of people matter to him, an immortal being? Years ago, he might have paid the present heed— back when he could've used the toil and turmoil to his own advantage, back when he had reason to entice and inveigle.

But those days were long over.

So Sebastian does not waste his time on human hearsay—ignores the leaflets and pamphlets and gossip that permeates the heavy London air, as rancid and thick as the city's forever-present smog. And he feels all the better for it.

His master, on the other hand…

His master is no longer human—no longer needs to involve himself with the creatures' petty affairs. But humanity is all he knows, and so he clings to it, even if he does not mean to.

The not-boy is not-listening, and yet, something he has heard is bothering him.

**II.**

He had not been unaware of his charge's feelings. He knew—with every breath that escaped his quivering lips; every accidental brush of their mismatched hands; every glance that flit between them, stolen and silent and secret— he knew. Even if his little lord did not.

And there are some things that eternity did not change: though the child's bitty heart no longer pulsed or beat, it had not vanished from the confines of his chest. His lips still tended to tremble, their fingers had been known to touch, and locked glances continued to birth pins and needles that tingled pleasantly beneath the porcelain veneer of humanoid flesh.

In life, this push-and-pull tension had resulted in frustration, in slapping, in verbal lashings. Death is hardly any different. Except—

Except.

Except for the glow of _realization _in those ruby-dyed sapphires, flickering like a flame just-behind the seal of their Contract.

Ignorance and innocence are human luxuries, after all.

**III.**

Sometimes, the fledgling will wander off.

It does not particularly bother Sebastian; his baby bird is now thirteen and five, and certainly capable of taking care of himself. He will fly back to their nest when he is ready, or will otherwise summon his servant to his side. The butler, for his part, is content to wait on his usual perch, allowing time to pass without thought or meaning. For no, he does not care about the affairs of humans, however interesting they occasionally happen to be.

But when his young master returns home— pale and pretty and pondering, brow as puckered as his lips are pursed—he thinks that it might be wise to investigate, if but a bit.

**IV.**

Demonhood suits his master, Sebastian must admit. Even in the deepest throws of starvation-inspired depression, he cannot ignore how marvelously his charge has evolved. China-white skin, satin-smooth and velvet; silken locks of moonstone blue, as silvery as starlight; lithe limbs made all the more elegant by the grace that his new powers have imbued him with… Even his demeanor, as thorny as always, had been somehow modified— or perhaps the diamond in the rough had simply been polished, buffed away to reveal a gem as precious and cursed as the one that had once rested upon his delicate thumb. It is appropriate, he thinks, for Ciel Phantomhive has always been powerfully lusted after; now, he is more alluring than ever: like shattered glass and fragmented jewels, lovely and tragic and all the more brilliant for his brokenness— glittering with an otherworldly beauty. Women, men, girls, boys… With a tweak of his lips, a flurry of his lashes, a crook of his finger, the fledgling has them all under his spell.

Garnering meals would be easy (almost insultingly so) if the baby bird ever wished to harvest the squirming-worm-souls for himself. But as a nobleman of superior pedigree, such work is beneath him; he prefers to have Sebastian feed him, as per usual.

**V.**

Ciel does not speak when the butler places the paper before him: pointedly, warily, with a very specific article situated right-side up. His charge does not speak, or blink, or show any other indication of recognition or alarm… but for a moment, his irises bleed scarlet. And in that instant, Sebastian knows.

"I did not realize that you were such a fan, my lord," the elder devil murmurs, brow arched in faint amusement. The tone is not intentionally patronizing, but the undercurrent of laughter makes it sound so.

The fledgling snarls, pupils waning to sickle-sharp moons. "I am not a _fan_," he corrects brusquely, as if the very idea disgusts him. "I've barely perused his works."

"Oh?" The chair beside Ciel's is gingerly disentangled from parted table legs, and suddenly the servant is standing decidedly _close_— nose tip to nose tip and messy forelocks tangled as Sebastian lowers himself into his usual bow. "Then why the marked interest in meaningless human dealings?"

The younger one swallows.

And although his lips say "boredom," his eyes give a different answer entirely.

**VI. **

They had kissed, once, when Ciel was human— on a gloomy fall day some six years prior. Asthma had exacerbated a particularly stubborn bout of influenza, despite the best care the demon could provide. Riddled by fever and chills, the boy had been so ill that he could hardly speak, let alone eat; Sebastian had concluded that his medicine would have to be delivered orally, if there was to be any hope of him consuming it. As a devil, he might have taken some perverse pleasure in this sort of undertaking, but no: so long as he was bound by Covenant, he was a (devil of a)_ butler_… and as such, Sebastian approached the task with all manner of professionalism, as called for by his station. There was no suggestion in his advances, however suggestive they might have seemed, out of context. All the same, opportunity knocked at the strangest of times, and as a butler (devil or not), it was his duty to bow such guests in with a smile.

He could still remember the pungent taste of oily elixir as it dribbled down his angled chin, slipping past parted lips to mix with liquid strings of saliva— falling like autumn rain against the wrinkled azure of the bedspread. His master's face, already flushed and rosy, had smoldered like embers against the hellfire of his own; it had felt like a homecoming, really, as he was drawn down, down, down... Greedy arms and hazy brain and weakly jabbing tongue, frantic and needy and only barely cognizant, stuck somewhere between reality, dreams, and nightmares. Beneath the cocoon of coverlets, the child's tiny body had writhed against Sebastian's, squiggled and thrusted, screamed for more… But when the drugs ran dry and his butler pulled away, Ciel was too weak to stop him. Fingers strained, mortal whined, demon leered.

And when the earl's fever broke two days later, he had no recollection of the incident.

**VII.**

"Are you hungry?"

The fledgling does not respond to the question, just as he had not responded to Sebastian's initial greeting. Home may be welcome, but Ciel does not seem happy to be there; he sits, brooding and bothered, in the rocking chair beside the bay window, gazing out over the pollution and grime that coats the ever-expanding cityscape.

The servant frowns. "Young master," he then sighs, sidling up to his little lord's side, "it may not be my place to say… but your attachment to this case is starting to seem a might unhealthy. As your butler, it concerns me to see you so embittered by something that does not truly concern you, anymore."

"But it _does _concern me," Ciel retorts— immediately, softly, sullenly, instinctively, in a half-breath so quiet that Sebastian wonders if, perhaps, he hadn't been meant to hear it. The dark clouds in the demonling's eyes are like those in the fog-filled sky; teardrops pearl and glisten against the pane, reflecting and refracting the image of Sebastian's hand on his arm.

The shiver that shoots down Ciel's spine when he turns to meet his servant's gaze is reminiscent of a symptom— like a sickness, chronic and terminal.

"It does _not_ concern you," the elder devil repeats. Insists. And there is a _promise_ in his husky voice— an invitation, an enticement. On the surface, it is a comfort; just-beneath, it is a wheedle, a temptation, a plead: _make an order, young master. Say the words. _

But Ciel says nothing.

**VIII.**

Three months and one day before his thirteen and sixth (re)birthday, Ciel knocks on Sebastian's door. Demons do not need sleep, and so Sebastian is wide awake and reading at the time, despite the very late (or early) hour. Even still, he cannot help but question his charge's odd behavior, for his lord has always been one to enjoy the comforts of unconsciousness.

"I'm hungry," the fledgling explains simply, half-hidden by shadows and the oaken frame of the entryway. Down one pallid arm, his shirt sleeve has slithered; the sheets on Sebastian's bed slide and bunch in a similar fashion, rearranged as the butler closes his book and opens his arms.

But when the baby bird's mouth latches itself onto his own, it is not the sweetness of souls that permeates Sebastian's senses, but astringent traces of medicine— a phantom-flavor, reminiscent of memories and déjà vu, as Ciel suckles and licks and nibbles and keens. Tongues twine, jaws lower; raindrops and teardrops and hands drop atop the ivory blanket, though the hands don't stay idle for long. Soon, one eager set finds Sebastian's shoulders (crimson crescents blossoming beneath the cotton of his nightshirt), and the other finds Ciel's hips (biting into them like the teeth that graze his tender neck), and the servant discovers that their previous roles have been entirely reversed: now _he_ is the one trapped beneath bedspread and quilt, knees propped and falling wide, while his master sits straddled atop the cradle of his abdomen, rub-thrust-grinding into the muscled arch of his butler's stomach. Heat, hardness, friction, desperation— Sebastian beats his crown against the headboard, undulating his hips against the petite pelvis that he is forcibly drag-push-yanking; Ciel buries his face in the exposed column of his caretaker's throat, panting and moaning and shuddering as if plagued by disease, and _no_, he isn't, but _yes_, he _is_, and _oh—_

_Oh!_

For humans, there is no black and white— the world is nothing but gray, dreary gray.

But as he colors his black butler with spurtings of white, Ciel cannot help but think that maybe— just maybe— that truth might not hold for devils.

**IX.**

"Hmph."

"I take it the case did not end well, young master?"

"Human beings are idiots," Ciel grunts, tossing the crumpled newspaper to the side. The wafer-thin pages rustle as they fly, pealing and scattering and dancing like petals mid-air. Black and white, like so many ethereal roses. When he next glances up, the once-boy's eyes are forget-me-not-blue.

And no, he couldn't— not even if he wanted to.

"You speak as if this fact were a recent development," Sebastian cannot help but tease, setting an empty teacup before the glowering fledgling. "But don't we both know that it has always been thus?"

The little one snorts, examining his visage in the round of a teaspoon— as shiny-bright as coagulated mercury, glistening in the watery light of dawn. "I am ashamed that I was ever one of them," he mutters, and comforts himself with an intentional flicker of claret.

"You cannot fault yourself for what you were," the butler returns, tilting his head in the faintest display of amusement. He can see his own reflection in the spoon, now; Ciel has twirled the bowl, so that the inverted mirror frames-cups-holds his image. The tip of a moist magenta tongue darts over lustrous lips, so quick that the elder almost misses it. Almost. "You had no choice in the matter."

The young one eyes the gleaming curve of the utensil, the delicious face trapped within it. There is a longing in his gaze, an ancient sort of hunger; how appropriate that his irises are as red as ripened apples.

But then Ciel scowls, musing. He sets the spoon aside. "I have a choice in the matter now," he mumbles as he moves, pealing his fingers, one by one, from the intricately engraved handle. Carefully. Mechanically. In the wake of icy emptiness, the gloss-tipped digits visibly ache to hold something; it's almost _painful, _even to watch.

And as a servant of Phantomhive…

"This is true." Sebastian tips forward, reverential and obsequious: the very picture of a dutiful servant. One hand drifts to clear away the unwanted Wedgewood cup; the other offers a familiar walking cane, prepared for a customary morning stroll. Anything to fill the silence, the fingers… "You are no longer bound by their rules and regulations. You may act as you see fit."

"…indeed."

It is an agreement, a realization, an affirmation. And in its wake, the butler has but a moment to appreciate the sudden calming of air; the lift of lip and the sparkle of eye as an eager hand bypasses one rod for another. Sebastian's startled hiss is muffled by the constriction of his airway— ebony tie cutting into flesh and throat as Ciel gives the decoration (and the devil to whom it is attached) a very pointed _jerk_. Cup, saucer, cane, shame, and dignity soon lie in pieces on the checkered marble floor, forgotten as the demonling crawls atop the table, astride his spirit-bound pet.

"Young ma—?"

The heat of blushing cheeks, of curled fists, of spread thighs. A brush of lips, a faint profession. And while the first is placed upon his mouth and the second is but a breath against his ear, both sensations send tremors and warmth to the lonely place just-behind his ribcage, so long presumed to be vacant, deadened, worthless. For, while Ciel's heart may have simply stopped beating, he'd never had need of one in the first place. And so, he had assumed…

Except…

Except.

His master speaks again, so muffled and hushed that no one but a devil could hear him; the phrases blend into the imperceptible sounds of squeaking ligaments, of bending joints, of creaking bone. They are nearly stifled by the shifting of tresses, all but washed away by the rushing flow-flow-flow of pumping blood. It is almost as if the words are another bodily whisper, just as much a part of Who He Is as the ligaments, joints, bones, locks, blood that make up his corporeal form.

Maybe this, then, is the voice of his soul.

Or, perhaps, deep within his own ribcage…

Mouth on mouth, lashes flutter like a butterfly. Fingers coil and wind like legs and tongue, and groans mingle and linger and taunt and tease— as tangible as the confessions that color pallid skin pink. Confessions that speak of desire, of passion, of wants, of wishes, of…

He wishes to give a response. He assumes that his tamer seeks a response. But every time he tries to react, tries to offer suitable reciprocation, his lips are otherwise claimed; the endearment of such enthusiasm births chuckles that the younger one cannot bring himself to ignore, even as he swallows each entertained emission. With the faintest of pouts, Ciel pulls an inch away, eyebrow cocked in tacit expectation.

"And I?" Sebastian is then allowed to chortle, a tickled sort of smile playing across the languid expanse of his bruising mouth. He loops possessive arms around an equally-possessive master, forehead to forehead as their squirming brings them far-too-close to the mahogany ledge. "May I say nothing, my lord?"

It is answer enough.

"Not now," a smirking Ciel decrees, and they tumble from the table with a giggle and a gasp.

**X.**

"'_The love that dare not speak its name' in this century is such a great affection of an elder for a younger man as there was between David and Jonathan, such as Plato made the very basis of his philosophy, and such as you find in the sonnets of Michelangelo and Shakespeare. It is that deep spiritual affection that is as pure as it is perfect. It dictates and pervades great works of art, like those of Shakespeare and Michelangelo, and those two letters of mine, such as they are. It is in this century misunderstood, so much misunderstood that it may be described as 'the love that dare not speak its name,' and on that account of it I am placed where I am now. It is beautiful, it is fine, it is the noblest form of affection. There is nothing unnatural about it. It is intellectual, and it repeatedly exists between an older and a younger man, when the older man has intellect, and the younger man has all the joy, hope and glamour of life before him. That it should be so, the world does not understand. The world mocks at it, and sometimes puts one in the pillory for it_."

~Oscar Wilde

**XXX**


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